


Where Butterflies Go

by lovetincture



Category: Loveless
Genre: Art School, Gen, Soubi-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:33:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29331636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Rain and loneliness. A day in the life.
Relationships: Agatsuma Soubi/Aoyagi Ritsuka
Kudos: 8





	Where Butterflies Go

**Author's Note:**

> So what happened is I wrote a bunch of fics in January and neglected to post them. Here's one of three, belatedly.

It’s wet today. Soubi doesn’t know why he’d thought it wouldn’t be. The sky had looked grim and foreboding all day, and the scent in the air promised rain. Perhaps he’d thought their run of good weather would hold. In any case, the rain meets him without an umbrella. It catches him unaware.

It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He’d waited for Seimei outside in the rain before—had waited for Ritsuka too, come to that. He’ll do it again, he’s sure of it. That’s just the way his life is.

There’s no purpose for him to be out in the rain today, though, and he doesn’t  _ like _ it. No one has specifically ordered him to endure. By the time he makes his way into the classroom, his hair is wet and plastered to his head, and the rainwater is just beginning to leak through his coat, dampening his shirt underneath. Even his socks feel faintly wet inside his shoes. The sensation is hateful, especially once the close warmth of the studio hits him, intensifying everything. He twists his hair off his neck with a grimace, setting it in a high ponytail that won’t help it dry but will at least stop it dripping down his back.

His classmates have set their umbrellas in a bucket by the door, most of them dry and smiling. A few of them look over in his direction, and he bares his teeth until they stop, quickly looking away. His reputation and general disposition ensure that no one approaches him, and on this day of all days, Soubi is glad of it.

Kio isn’t here today, his spot beside Soubi conspicuously empty, and Soubi finds that he regrets it. Kio is a bit much at times, sunny to the point of pathology, but it’s… nice. To have someone to talk to. He’s grown used to Kio’s company.

There’s no point in dwelling on it. Soubi takes his painting down from the storage rack. It’s a large one, nearly as tall as he is and half an armspan wide. He’d thought he’d experiment with large format paintings when he started. He’s been less successful than he thought, but he enjoys the challenge. He sets up his paints, methodically squeezing them out in his preferred order on his palette, the irritation of his damp clothes and body fading into background noise while he works.

He checks his phone out of habit, but there are no missed calls, no messages from Ritsuka. Ritsuka will be in class at this time of day, and Soubi lets his mind wander for a moment, wondering what Ritsuka is doing right this second, wondering what he thinks, what he feels. The thought of Ritsuka always lights something warm and fearful in him. He indulges himself for a moment.

Soubi sets a hand over the surface of his canvas, feeling the texture rough beneath his palm. He closes his eyes and envisions the picture he wants. He can see it in his mind’s eye.

All his paintings aren’t like this. Sometimes it’s a path of discovery, uncovering the forms he didn’t know were there, slashing color across the canvas and allowing shapes to speak to him, images to unfold. He enjoys working that way, but this—this is something else.

He opens his eyes, lights up a cigarette, and picks up a brush.

This painting isn’t lovely, strictly speaking. There’s something grotesque about it. The rich red coating the canvas is too vibrant, the sheen of it too raw and open. It’s visceral. Vulgar. Soubi can feel his classmates’ eyes on him, hear the hushed whispers when they walk by. He ignores them easily. Even his professor regards his latest work with little more than a raised eyebrow and an admonition to  _ put that cigarette out, Agatsuma-san. _

Soubi ashes his cigarette into his jar of turpentine and sticks it right back in his mouth without bothering to take his eyes off his canvas. He likes it quite a bit. It isn’t beautiful, but it feels honest, a canvas like dripping meat.

He cleans off his brush, dragging its bristles through his dirty rag, swirling it around in the turpentine before tossing it back on the paint-stained table. More white, maybe. Thin washes of zinc white painted to look like gathering sweat—or saliva. He’ll have to see. Maybe he’ll think on it for a while.

He gets up from his stool with a long, exaggerated stretch, feeling the stiffness that’s taken up residence in his spine while he sat. Noon has come and gone as he painted. The clock above the door reads 2:15. Not time for Ritsuka to get off school yet, but almost.

Soubi leaves the classroom behind without a backward glance, walking into the relative quiet of the hallway to check his phone again. There’s a message from Kio asking him to apologize to their professor. Still nothing from Ritsuka.

Soubi sighs. The rain hasn’t let up. It does strange things to the passage of time, the pervasive grey of cloud cover. The day feels like it’s standing still, and Soubi’s eyes track the movement of droplets down the outside of the window. The glass is cold to the touch when he puts his hand against it. The leaves outside bend toward the earth, bowing under the weight of heaven, and great lakes form here and there in the pits of the asphalt.

There are birds somewhere in all of this. Soubi wonders what happens to the butterflies when it pours. He wonders if they all just die.

He’s done for the day. There’s more work he could do, even if he leaves the highlights for another day. He wants to deepen the red in some places, add rich glazes of cadmium red overlaid with Mars black, but suddenly, he can’t stomach it. The rain has been reminding him of things that are best left forgotten, a steady, corrosive drip all day, and there’s only one place he wants to be right now.

He goes back inside and tidies his station in a hurry. He’s not above leaving a mess for someone else to deal with, but he’s concerned about what will happen to his paints if he leaves them laying about—some of his classmates have sticky fingers—and anyway, he’s grown fond of his latest painting. It would be a shame to see it destroyed.

Hanabi offers to walk him to the bus stop with her umbrella, but he declines. He’s not in a fit mood for company, and even the rain seems preferable. It’s a shame that he’d finally gotten almost all the way dry, but Soubi supposes it can’t be helped as the rain soaks him anew.

The trip to Ritsuka’s school takes the better part of an hour and leaves Soubi pushing wet hair out of his face on the train, dripping on people’s shoes while they shoot him disgusted looks that he ignores.

He reaches the gates just as the ending bell rings. It takes a while more for Ritsuka to appear, laughing bright at something one of his friends said. The sight makes something pull in Soubi’s chest. It’s good to see Ritsuka happy, but he can’t stop the poisonous little sting of jealousy, that someone else made him happy. It’s an odd feeling and one he shouldn’t have—it’s not his place to feel possessive over his Sacrifice, but perhaps he’s growing undisciplined in Seimei’s absence. Just a little.

Soubi knows the moment Ritsuka spots him. His face changes. The easy smile falls off it and morphs into something frowning and displeased. Ritsuka trots over to him, a navy blue umbrella held above his head.

“Soubi!” he calls as soon as he’s within shouting distance. “What are you  _ doing?” _

Soubi smiles. It’s not for Ritsuka’s benefit. If anything, the boy’s scowl deepens at the sight of it. It’s just such a genuine pleasure to see Ritsuka’s face, even when it’s twisted in annoyance with him.

“Waiting for you,” he says simply.

“You’re soaked! You’re going to catch a cold. Stupid.” Ritsuka thrusts his umbrella over Soubi’s head, his shorter arms straining to reach. As it is, Soubi has to stoop down to avoid being stabbed in the eye until he plucks the umbrella out of Ritsuka’s hand and takes over.

“Couldn’t you have at least waited under an awning?” Ritsuka asks, exasperated.

“I wanted to see you.”

Ritsuka sighs, a long, drawn-out huff, but the corners of his lips threaten to curl up at the admission. “Stupid,” he says one more time, tail lashing.

Soubi hums contentedly. He can hear the affection in it. It warms a part of him that doesn’t see much sunlight.

“I don’t suppose you have anything to eat?” Ritsuka asks suddenly.

“I don’t. Are you hungry?”

Ritsuka nods. “I skipped lunch today. Some girls in my class knocked Yuiko’s lunch on the floor, so I gave her mine.”

He says it like it’s nothing, chin tipped up in defiance. It strikes Soubi again how unlike Seimei Ritsuka is. How unlike himself. He’d have never given a classmate his meal just because they were bullied. The strong dominate the weak. It’s the way of the world.

“That was kind of you,” he says instead.

Ritsuka flushes and looks away. “Whatever. It’s not a big deal.”

“I don’t have anything on me, but I’d be happy to cook for you.”

Ritsuka hesitates, and Soubi feels a flush of disappointment before he ruthlessly tamps it down. If Ritsuka doesn’t desire his presence, that’s his prerogative.

“Okay,” Ritsuka says. “But we have to get you out of those wet clothes first. You’re seriously going to catch a cold.”

Maybe it shouldn’t feel so much like relief. Like taking the first breath in a warm room when your lungs have been freezing from cold. Comforting and a little painful, the prickle-burn of long dead parts coming back to life.

“Whatever you say, Ritsuka.”

Ritsuka sputters like he’s being teased, but Soubi’s never been more sincere in his life. He might not mind if the rain never clears up.


End file.
